


spider lily

by blue000jay



Series: drabbles [5]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Chronic Pain, Resurrection, also had to google up some traumatic brain injury stuff to see how it works, im nothing if not well-researched, spider lilies represent death and reincarnation, this is me taking my chronic pain and self projecting it onto wilbur LMAO
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:48:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29042655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue000jay/pseuds/blue000jay
Summary: Wilbur has a body.The freckle on the base of his left pinky finger (shared with Techno). The scar on his chin from when he was twelve and over ambitious, diving into too-shallow water. The scar on his throat from the final control room, and the puckered skin on his shoulder from the poisoned arrow that killed him next. Various other nicks and things that litter his skin from years of rebellion and living wild, a kid thrown into a vicious world with too little self-preservation.(Resurrection AU, for when/if Wilbur comes back.)
Relationships: Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot, Niki | Nihachu & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: drabbles [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2103231
Comments: 45
Kudos: 291
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	spider lily

**Author's Note:**

> o/ hope you enjoy this!!! it's definitely a bit personal-- a relationship with pain and being alive, you know?

Wilbur quite liked being dead. 

To be frank, it had been pleasant. His head had been the clearest it had ever been since… since… well, he can’t remember the last time he’d had as clear a thought as the first one that had crossed his mind upon his death. Being dead was like floating in a liquid chamber of molasses, or maybe honey. Sticky but see-through, translucent enough that Wilbur could occasionally get glimpses of the other side when the bubbles cleared just right. Schlatt, his unwilling roommate in this dark purgatorial honeytrap, called it the veil. Wilbur was much less fantastical about the whole thing-- he preferred to think of it as a border. The line you cross when you die. He and Schlatt had shared the space beyond it alone for a while. Probably because they were the only two dead on the entire server, save for some odd occasional visitors. Someone who looked distinctly like Dream with a goatee and colorful mask came and went, a bright light claiming him before a word could be exchanged-- and then once, Jack Manifold. Jack Manifold, who had given Wilbur the dirtiest of looks before being sucked right back into the living world. And then finally, Ghostbur.

Wilbur hated Ghostbur.

He was annoying and naive and ignorant and never answered Wilbur’s questions about the living. He kept going on about a fucking sheep. Wilbur was perplexed and angry with this version of himself, ignoring Schlatt’s drunken laughter in the background as he shouted and argued with what could’ve arguably been seven-year-old Wilbur in the body of him now.

Wilbur might be a little jealous of Ghostbur, mostly because Ghostbur crosses the border as he pleases, although not without surprise. Ghostbur knows what’s going on out there. Ghostbur is lucky. Most people never get to see both sides, and yet--

And yet here he is, coughing up sticky red viscous blood into his hands, a thudding pain in his chest. There are shouts around him, words he cannot decipher due to the ringing in his ears, but there is a solid hand on his arm. He’s hauled to his feet, and then suddenly, there’s Phil. Blue eyes staring at him with wonder, no wings in sight. He looks tired. He looks astounded.

“Wil,” he says, and then Wilbur’s being crushed so tightly into a hug. Someone’s throwing themselves against his back and when Wilbur turns, it’s Tommy--

Tommy, who is an inch shorter from the slump in his shoulders, with new fresh scars and a glint of victory in his eyes. Tommy, who’s crying.

“Wilby--” he chokes, voice muffled into his shirt, and Wilbur’s arms carefully settle around his brother’s shoulders. 

“Hi,” Wilbur says, and his voice is croaky from physical disuse. Then, reminiscent of a conversation they’ve had before: “Did you miss me?”

It carries more weight now. So does Wilbur.

Coming back to life is a process, as his body knits itself back together. Once it’s been established he’s alive and mostly in his right mind, and he’s been shown a whirlwind of things around the server, Tommy graciously brings Wilbur to somewhere where it’s more quiet. Somewhere where it can be just them two. Somehow, Tommy knows what Wilbur needs before Wilbur himself can verbalize it. 

Tommy’s vacation house sits on a hill, with windows perfectly aligned with the sun. It’s there Wilbur sits on the floor and gets used to his body again, golden rays dripping down his skin. (which is pale enough already-- he needs to get out and tan. He plans to.) Down his middle is a huge scar-- surely the one from Phil, the memory of the stab burnt into the back of his eyelids like a brand. He sees it every time he shuts them, and the scar is testament to it. Other than that, however, everything is right where he’s used to seeing it. 

The freckle on the base of his left pinky finger (shared with Techno). The scar on his chin from when he was twelve and over ambitious, diving into too-shallow water. The scar on his throat from the final control room, and the puckered skin on his shoulder from the poisoned arrow that killed him next. Various other nicks and things that litter his skin from years of rebellion and living wild, a kid thrown into a vicious world with too little self-preservation. 

Some things about himself are new, though. The scar on his middle, yes, but there’s more than that. There’s a crick in his neck that won’t go away no matter how many times he rolls it. His lower back aches-- wandering tendrils of pain occasionally spiking up his spine and echoing around the base of his neck. He’s coughing up less blood than he had been in the minutes after his resurrection, but occasionally he’ll have to wipe the red away from his mouth and just breathe as his chest tightens and loosens in waves. 

Yeah. Wilbur had liked being dead. At least there, he didn’t have to feel anything. 

The door swings open when he’s studying a freckle on his elbow, and Tommy enters, piles of firewood in his arms.

“Put a shirt on, freak,” he complains, and there’s a thud from where he drops the wood in the corner. The house is dusty. Wilbur sniffs-- he can smell the scent of disuse, of stale wood, of something rotting in a chest. He hasn’t lived in a world of smell for a while, but scrambles to tug his shirt on anyways. It sits uncomfortably against his skin, but he deals. 

Tommy is still staring at him when he pops his head out of the neck hole. 

“What?” He asks, a tiny bit irritated but only in the way that Tommy can make him. It’s irritation borne out of knowledge, out of a bond that not even death can break.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” Tommy admits gently. His tone is soft. A lot of things are softer about Tommy, less sharp edges and quips meant to prove himself. He’d hardly even spoken for the first few minutes of Wilbur coming back-- he’d just clung. Everyone in attendance (mainly Phil and a few others Wilbur didn’t recognize) had been gracious enough not to comment. Wilbur likes it. Softness looks good on Tommy. 

“Well,” Wilbur says, spreading an arm and shrugging up at him. “You did go against my direct wishes of wanting to stay dead. That’s pretty unbelievable.” It’s absolutely believable. Being contradictory to Wilbur is Tommy’s life mission. 

Yet, despite his joking tone, Tommy’s face falls. Something flickers across his expression, something dark and tainted and terrible. 

The drop into guilt is terrible and quick.

“But,” Wilbur amends, watching as Tommy glances at him, dragging his gaze up from the dusty floorboards. “It is nice to be back. I missed some things.” 

Tommy’s hesitant, but after a second he asks, “What?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

“Oh, come on. Be a sap. I know you want to-- you hardly spoke--”

“Fine, fine! I missed _you_ , you insufferable child.” 

“I missed you too.” Tommy looks dreadfully proud of himself for getting Wilbur to admit it, but really it should be the other way around-- Wilbur is proud of Tommy, incredibly so. He’s already told him that, in the moments when the border got close enough to touch and Schlatt had warned him of purgatory, but Wilbur hadn’t cared-- he’d seen Tommy through the veil, and desperately needed to tell him he was proud. So he had. 

“There’s that, then,” Wilbur says, and Tommy grins. Not everything is perfect, but right now, in this golden house made of oak wood, two brothers reunite.

\----

Not everything is perfect.

There are things Wilbur missed. Things he has to catch up on. L’Manberg is gone-- blown to bits, a scar in the earth. There’s an egg that whispers sweet nothings, a hotel, a new friend, a father and brother who are so far out into the tundra that it takes half a day on horseback to get there. 

Wilbur takes all of it in, and pretends it doesn’t affect him.

But it does.

Being dead had been like a dream. It had been floaty and ephemeral, time passing in fleeting moments. Wilbur’s not even sure if he saw time in the right order while he was dead-- some of the things he remembers are fuzzy, but don’t line up when he scrounges up a quill and book to write it all down. He titles the page _Memories of Death_ , and carefully scrawls his name under the titles, then sits and tries to write.

Nothing comes out. He redoes the page six different times, only able to come up with scribbles when he attempts to write down what he can remember about the afterlife. It’s like he can’t put it into words. 

Then, Wilbur tries to write something else. 

“Tommy,” he says, shoving a piece of paper in his face. “What does this say?”

Tommy gives him a look like he’s insane. “There’s just scribbles, Wilbs.”

Wilbur blanches, then looks down at the page. His title-- his name. It’s just… scribbles.

“Are you alright?” Tommy says after a second, putting down the blocks of cobble and shutting the chest from where he’d been doing something before Wilbur had interrupted him. Wilbur ignores him, choosing instead to look at his right hand, his writing hand. The one that had signed the declaration (lost to TNT) and written song after song to woo a woman with hair made of fire. 

“Wilbur?” Tommy’s voice cuts through his reverie, and he slams the paper down on the flat top of the chest, tugging the pen out of the pocket of his trousers. He holds it to the parchment, swallows, and then tries to write his name.

It’s just a scribble.

“Wilbs,” Tommy says, and his voice is soft and gentle and so unlike him that Wilbur wants to shake him.

“Why can’t I write?” He asks, trying again, and again. He knows his name. He knows the letters-- W-I-L-B-U-R. Nothing changes. S-O-O-T. “Tommy, tell me I’m writing.”

Tommy’s voice is soft but it’s worried when he says: “We should go talk to Phil.” 

Phil is useless, in the end. With a frown that’s too comfortable on his face, he studies Wilbur’s attempts at writing and turns the sheet of paper over and over in his gloved hands. Wilbur is cold, unbearably cold standing out here in the front yard of Phil and Techno’s home, but he doesn’t care. He needs answers-- ones Phil can only guess at.

“I’m sorry, mate,” he says gently, handing the paper back to Tommy (who looks much more at home in the chill than Wilbur feels, despite the uncomfortable look on his face.) “It’s probably a side effect of the resurrection. Shit can mess up a brain if it’s not done right. We did our best, but there are bound to be lingering effects.” 

Wilbur thinks of his aches and pains and the times when the noise and light gets to be too much, and he thinks he understands a little better.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help more,” Phil laments as he packs them a bag with a few bottles of honey and bread, a few scutes packed in alongside them. A blue coat, one that’s clearly Tommy’s size and by the look on his face, worn by him before. “I’d just say the fix-it is going to be practicing until you can do it again. Do your letters, every day.” The last sentence is said chidingly, and Wilbur feels like he’s six again, which is obviously the point as Phil ruffles his hair and laughs lightly with him.

“Okay,” he says, knocking Phil’s arm away fondly. There’s a slight flinch there as Wilbur makes contact, and a flash of something in Phil’s eyes, but then it’s gone again and Phil is urging Wilbur up onto his horse. Tommy’s already ready to go-- he’s been itching to leave since they arrived. “Thanks, dad.” 

“No problem.” Phil pats the horse’s flank, and Wilbur gives it a nudge, shifting forward slightly. “Come visit more often, yeah? Tech and I miss you.”

Wilbur opens his mouth to reply, but before he can, Tommy interjects. “We’ll think about it,” he snaps, and then they’re off across the snow before Wilbur can even ask what that was about. By the time they’re home it’s dark and late and Wilbur once again feels like he’s out of the loop as Tommy scowls and stalks to his room, once again a teenager angry with the world.

Wilbur walks himself home, to the house he’d commandeered just outside the L’Manhole, and practices his letters by candlelight.

\----

Letters are like bikes. It seems that once Wilbur reminds his body how to do them, it remembers on it’s own. His handwriting will never be the same-- he compares samples on his own, noting how his letters flow into one another, how he spells things, how the pressure of the pen changes from his grip on the body of the pen, and it’s different. He practices, and eventually, he hand-delivers a letter to Phil. It’s worth the trip and the ice he gets from Tommy to see the crinkles around his eyes when he reads over Wilbur’s chicken-scratch, smiling the whole time he’s there.

Letters were not the only thing he lost, however.

One night, Tommy hands him a guitar. It’s his, previously kept in a hidden closet and stowed away with dust. The strings need replacing, so he replaces them. It needs tuning, so he tunes it. It needs to be played--

He sits, with his hands above the strings, and realizes he cannot.

It’s the first time he cries since returning from the dead. He hadn’t even cried when he’d first see the bedrock below L’Manberg, when he’d heard about Techno’s apparent betrayal from Tommy or heard about Niki, rarely seen around the SMP these days. 

This is his breaking point, and he sobs. He sits in the main room of the house he stole and sobs, tears leaking hot down his cheeks and dripping onto the wood of the guitar beneath him, cleaned to the point of shining new. He thanks prime Tommy is not there to see him when he realizes he cannot play-- he’s not sure how he would’ve reacted with him there, or how Tommy would’ve reacted to his tears.

The bawling fit lands him in bed for a few days anyways, migraines coming and going, so there’s an excuse not to use the guitar for a little bit.

Eventually he can’t hide it anymore-- it comes out one night when Tubbo requests a song and Tommy encourages him and they dance around the table in Wil’s house and laugh and sing an approximation of a tune he once composed and-- and he breaks. The days of rising pain and conflict and upset collide within him, and he loses it. He snaps, slamming the instrument on the table and tells them that he _can’t_ and he would like them to leave.

Their silence speaks volume as they slink out of the house, hand-in-hand. 

Blearily, Wilbur leaves the guitar on the table, the dishes in the sink, and goes to bed. His body aches-- his mind does too. He misses his body. The old one, not the one he has now, the one that hurts at every turn and cracks and cripples him. He can’t walk halfway across the SMP proper without being out of breath. He can’t play guitar. He can’t get out of bed some mornings without Tommy dragging him and some form of pain relief. It hurts and he’s tired of it. Relief is little to none-- he doesn’t want to live with it, he just wants it to stop. Curled up in bed in the dark is the closest he thinks he’ll get to being dead again (floating, quiet, dim). It’s here that he can just about hear Schlatt’s voice, slurring his words and smelling like cigarette smoke.

 _Better you than me_ , he says, words echoing in Wilbur’s ears. It’s faint, but it tunes out the ringing in his head. 

“Fuck you,” Wilbur says. They’d never gotten along great, but death had somehow made them close despite it. Being stuck for four months in purgatory together will do that to you. Wilbur misses him, in this moment-- Schlatt would say something stupid or offer him a sip of his whiskey, and Wilbur would scoff and shove him away.

 _It’s not even real whiskey_ , Schlatt says. Wilbur squeezes his eyes shut tighter. _Just a figment of my brain. I’m not even really drunk._

“You just like to act like it,” Wilbur says, and Schlatt laughs. It echoes, floating around in his mind and making him wince as it bounces against the inside of his skull.

 _Oops_ , Schlatt says. _See. Better you than me._

“Wouldn’t you want a second chance?” Wilbur asks, whispering into the black emptiness of the bedroom he took as his own. “To fuck shit up more?”

 _Nah_ , Schlatt says. _I’m done. And, for the_ **_last time_ ** _, better you than me. You’re doin’ things right now, and that’s cool I guess._

“Fuck off,” Wilbur mutters, rolling over in bed. His spine cracks and aches as he shifts, pain melting down his whole body like hot butter but infinitely worse. Schlatt does not reply. Wilbur is alone.

Not for too long, however. He wakes up to knocking on his door, which is how he knows his visitor is not Tommy. Tommy does not knock-- Tommy barges. It’s why he drags himself out of bed, runs fingers through his hair and avoids mirrors as he makes his way downstairs and flings open the door. He’s expecting Phil, after his outburst last night, or maybe Sam, who had become a good friend of Tommy’s and by association Wilbur’s, or maybe Puffy--

He’s not expecting Niki. Her hair is pink now.

“Hi,” she says after an undetermined amount of silence. “Are you… going to invite me in?”

“Right,” Wilbur says, backing away from the door to get out of her way. “Right, come… come in.” 

“Nice place,” she comments, coming in through the entryway and glancing around. “I’ve always passed by this house. Never went in it.” She’s wearing his old cloak.

She’s wearing his old cloak, tucked around her shoulders and patches sewn onto where it had ripped.

“I think it used to be Karl’s,” Wilbur admits after a second of shock. “Figured he didn’t use it anymore.” 

“It’s nice,” Niki says gently, turning to look at him. He shuts the door. “Show me where the tea and kettle is.” 

Wilbur shows her where the tea and kettle are, and without any sort of prompting, Niki starts to make them both two mugs. Wilbur is feeling quite lightheaded so he doesn’t try to argue-- just sits and watches her move around the tiny kitchen, humming lightly to herself. The cloak-- his cloak-- ends up draped over the back of one of the chairs.

“I haven’t seen you around,” Wilbur says, throat dry. Niki nods.

“I wanted to move away from the SMP,” she explains. “I went far out, started to build a library. Somewhere safe to keep history, that isn’t in the middle of this constant warzone.”

“Dream’s in prison now.”

“Tommy’s still free.”

“You make a fair point.” They both snicker at that, and then a mug of hot leaf water is being slid in front of him. He doesn’t hesitate to reach out and blow across it, sipping lightly. It sinks into him, soothes whatever parts of his body it can. 

“Tommy was the one to come find me, actually,” Niki admits, and when he looks at her, she’s staring into her own mug. “He was worried about you. Something about the guitar?”

Wilbur glances over to where the guitar sits on the table, lying there still from where he’d slammed it the previous night. It’s nearly evening now anyways-- he’d stayed in bed most of the day, trying to ignore the pulses of unfamiliarity and pain. 

“I can’t play it anymore,” he admits. Niki inhales sharply. “Something about losing fine motor control abilities. Couldn’t write, either. Still sort of can’t.”

“Oh, Wil.” Niki sounds absolutely pitying, and Wilbur can’t find it in himself to be annoyed.

“My hands ache,” he admits, because why not come clean about everything. “And my back. I think something’s wrong with me, Niki.” 

Eyebrows furrow and warm hands come to cover his own, soothing the ache in his fingers for a moment. Her hands are small against his. So incredibly small, and yet she tries to hold all of his hands at once. He smiles lightly, and when he glances up, she still looks worried.

“I’m sorry,” she says eventually. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t think anything can fix it,” Wilbur admits. “I think it’s just… part of being alive.” 

They lapse into silence.

After a bit, Niki speaks up again. Shifts in her chair. “Do you remember when you taught me to play guitar? In L’Manberg?”

“Of course I do,” he says, because of course he does. Those are cherished memories. “I remember things just fine, it’s just my body that hates me.” His laugh isn’t shared by her, but she does crack a smile.

“Well,” she continues, and Wilbur meets her gaze. “I could teach you again. If you wanted.”

“The guitar?”

“Mhm.”

Wilbur considers it. He considers the tingle in his hands, the warmth of Niki’s over his, the smell of tea in the room. The way his eyes sink with exhaustion. He rolls an ankle absently, and it cracks. 

“I’d like nothing more,” he tells her. 

\----

Not everything is perfect.

The pain comes and goes. Some days, Wilbur can’t leave the house. Some days, he can walk around a bit. Some, he crosses the whole of the SMP and feels amazing. He sits in the sun and gets tan-- scars fade a bit as time passes. Tommy laughs with him, Niki teaches him the guitar. His handwriting slowly gets better over time-- once, Techno comes to visit, a quiet night of confessions and pinky promises and secrets. Before he goes the next morning, Wilbur plucks out a quiet tune on the guitar for him and relishes in the applause.

Not everything is perfect, but it is manageable. And Wilbur must get by for now-- after all, he much prefers being alive over dead.

**Author's Note:**

> if you did like, please leave a kudos and/or comment!!! they really do motivate and help me know what's good/what's bad about my writing :) 
> 
> have a lovely day!
> 
> (PS! check out the lovely [podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29119212)!)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [spider lily (podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29119212) by [starlitwish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlitwish/pseuds/starlitwish)




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